FURTHERMORE
By Gerry Moran
Some photographs are precious. One of those photographs sits on our mantelpiece. I look at it often. And always I linger over it. The photograph is precious for three reasons. One tt was taken on my 21st birthday with my father and mother alongside me Second, it was the day I graduated from University College Dublin and, thirdly. It was the last photograph of my father before he died – five months later on the 1December 10, a date engraved on my memory.
The photograph was taken on the steps of Earlsfort Terrace, the last of many photographs to be taken on that day of Arts sraduates as we moved to the brand new campus in Belfield the following term.
My father is wearing MY tie in the photograph; a tie that I had purchased previously to go with my navy suit for the occasion but later found something more fashionable (or so I thought) and offered the tie to my father which he gladly accepted. I love that simple connection, tie if you’ll pardon the pun, between my dad and myself especially in hindsight, knowing that he would be dead five months later.
My father and I didn’t exactly connect – not because of any issues or clash of personalities. Fathers and sons just didn’t connect as such back in the 70s. No fault of son or father. Quite simply it was how things were back then. And the irony of it all is that my father could connect with anyone; possessed of a pleasant personality, he could get on with paupers, princes, poets and popes (not that he knew any princes, poets or popes). How well he’d get on with them I can’t vouch for but what I can guarantee is that he would be pleasant company.
I loved my father. But only retrospectively which may sound strange. I didn’t appreciate his gentle nature, his pleasant personality, when he was alive. And I didn’t because his wife, my mother, was far too dominant and overshadowed my father’s gentle traits. But then my mother had to be strong, very strong; times were tough, money was scarce and my mother ruled the roost (as mother hens did) and guided us, her five children, into education and jobs that would stand to us throughout our lives. And they did.
I have outlived my father by seven years now thanks to nutrition and medication. And very few days go by when I do not think about my dad, my Da, and get a little emotional. I especially get emotional about the one, and only, pint I had with him. We were visiting my mother in hospital and on our way home he invited me, 20 years of age I think, into a nearby pub for a drink.
What we talked about over that pint I have no recollection of but what I recollect vividly is when he asked would I like another pint and I refused. “Have to meet friends,” I told him. Whether or not I had to meet friends is irrelevant – I should have had that second pint with my dad. Bothers me. Upsets me to this day. Sorry, dad. What we might have talked about I genuinely have no idea. But it wouldn’t have mattered, as we would have bonded quietly, silently perhaps over the few pints.
Father, Dad, Gerry and Da.
I am reminded of my father, my dad, my Da, because of Gerry Cody’s Lake production of Da in Thomastown from March 14 to 16 and again from March 21 to 23. I first saw the play Da by Hugh Leonard in the Friary Hall many, many years ago. The late Donal O Brien played Da and I laughed and cried throughout. It is, by far, one of the most moving plays I have ever been to. I am so looking forward to seeing Joe Murray play the role of Da this time round; a performance, I have no doubt, that will bring tears to my eyes yet again.
Regarding my own fatherhood – I have four children and each of them has their own way of addressing me. One calls me Father, another calls me Dad, yet another calls me Gerry while the youngest calls me – give a guess, Da.
